


Welcome Home

by softsilences



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, M/M, Masturbation, PWP, SCREAMS SOFTLY WHY DID I DO THIS, Voyeurism, i've never written smut or anything like this before so consider this a warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 12:40:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7574401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softsilences/pseuds/softsilences
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iwaizumi hears Oikawa yelp and he thinks, no, shut up, Morgan Freeman. Supernovas don’t only happen in space. They can happen here too. Right here. Right now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome Home

He finds the front door unlocked.

Iwaizumi lets the cold, metal knob turn counter-clockwise in his hand.

He takes a few steps back, looks down to check the concrete at the front of his feet, and sure enough, the pot of purple hydrangeas he’d kept by the doorway had been toppled over—or to be more accurate, judging from the sprinkle of soil scattered around the pot, callously kicked down.

Moving the weight of his canvas bag to the side, Iwaizumi kneels down to bring the pot upright.

It had been a lousy spur-of-the-moment gift from some equally lousy spur-of-the-moment person, Iwaizumi remembers. And on most occasions, he would forget to water said gift, but he would never forget the fact that he hides a spare key beneath the plant’s pot.

The key is gone.

 _He’s here, alright_.

He takes the water bottle from his bag and haphazardly dumps its remains over the leaves and the stem.

The action reminds him of the signs he’d seen around the neighborhood park:

  _‘Please don’t step on the grass._ ’

_‘Learn the art of segregation: put your trash inside the proper containers.’_

_‘Plants are friends._ ’

Go fucking green.

Iwaizumi huffs. He’s never been the kind of person to be unreasonably mean towards plants, but right now he wishes for the purple hydrangeas to wilt. They—together with his memories—would make for useful compost.

Iwaizumi steps inside his house. He doesn’t slam the door.

He takes his shoes off and places them to the side, his bag falling off of his shoulder and to the ground shortly after.

All the lights are off.

Maybe _he_ already left.

Iwaizumi breathes something akin to relief—but that relief soon morphs into exasperation as soon as he inches deeper into the house and hears the faint tin-canned murmur of the TV from the living room.

 _“It_ _is a region in space where the pulling force of gravity is so strong that even light is unable to escape...”_

Iwaizumi reaches the end of the hallway which conveniently opens to the living room. From here, he can see the top half of Oikawa’s head resting against the leather couch, can observe the intricacies of Oikawa's styled hair outlined by the dim television light.

Aside from the occasional bursts of dying stars and the Morgan-Freeman-esque narration from Oikawa’s educational space program, everything is relatively quiet. Even the humming of the ceiling fan blends in perfectly with the stillness of the night, and Iwaizumi almost swears he hears Oikawa’s breathing.

Crossing his arms, Iwaizumi leans against the wall. He doesn’t plan on making his presence known just yet, already quite puzzled by the fact that Oikawa didn’t hear him coming from the front door. But most importantly, Iwaizumi reflects, it’s because it’s been months, after all. Months since Oikawa last visited.

Iwaizumi’s not really sure how he should greet the other, or if he should greet the other at all. Will they fall into some rhythm? Or will the air turn into invisible fingers that would hold them by their throats and render them unable speak? Perhaps they would engage in that familiar manner of banter Oikawa always kept up with him. Perhaps not. Maybe Oikawa misses him as much he does—

 _“Iwa-chan,”_ Iwaizumi hears Oikawa say.

The voice comes out sharp and pronounced yet, at the same time, also weak. Brittle, almost as if Oikawa was keening when he called out Iwaizumi’s name.

“ _I-Iwa-chan_ ,” Oikawa calls out, cries out, “ _Ah_ —”

It takes a lot of Iwaizumi’s remaining strength—which, in the first place, wasn’t enough considering the amount of hours he put into overtime at work—to look up at the figure across him, at the magnetic silhouette of Oikawa’s head.

It doesn’t take him a while to realize the slight tremors in Oikawa’s silhouette: how at one moment it would look as if Oikawa has his head arched up, and then looking sideways or down the next.

What does take Iwaizumi a while though is to process the distractingly obscene squelching sounds that he knows aren’t coming from Oikawa’s damned TV show.

“Iwa-chan. Ah, _fuck_ , Iwa-chan. Iwa-chan—”

Iwaizumi bites his lips. He hears blood rushing up to his ears, feels warmth rising from his neck to his cheeks, jolts when that warmth hits his skull like the flick of fingers only to dip down and free-fall past his belt. The grip he didn’t know he had on the cloth of his sleeves tightens, and soon, the Morgan Freeman-esque narration from the TV becomes background noise, becomes a mere accompaniment to Oikawa’s incessant _‘Iwa-chans’_.

“ _Fuck. Shit. Oikawa_ —” Iwaizumi curses under his breath. His belt is undone, and his arms aren’t crossed anymore. His hands don’t know what they’re doing. Why are his fingers cold. Holy shit. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but whatever it is, Iwaizumi forces himself to think, it’s done best when he times it to the beat of Oikawa’s hitched breathing.

A supernova, according to the space program still playing on the TV, is an explosion that happens at the end of a star’s life cycle. It is one of the largest explosions that can take place at space.

 _“_ Hajime! _”_

Iwaizumi hears Oikawa yelp and he thinks, no, shut up, Morgan Freeman. Supernovas don’t only happen in space. They can happen here too. Right here. Right now.

“Haji—“ Oikawa’s voice breaks on the second syllable of Iwaizumi’s name, and what follows is a sharp, almost guttural scream.

“Tooru,” Iwaizumi grunts. He finishes off shortly, his eyes closing shut, lips twitching, back arching, chest heaving. He comes hard in his hands.

On the TV screen, the ending credits roll. The sound of heavy, sated breathing fills the room. And the ceiling fan turns and turns and turns.

Iwaizumi sags, lets his body drop down to the floor.

He looks at the white mess on his hand and on the floor. His knees are weak, and are made even more so when, at the moment he looks up, he sees Oikawa smiling cheekily at him from the couch.

“Long time no see, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa greets, grinning even wider now, hair mussed and beautifully tousled.

Iwaizumi almost wants to punch him with his fists. But he reconsiders the thought. Using his lips as substitute for his fists won’t be so bad either. After all, Iwaizumi confesses, he misses him.

There’s a short silence then a small chuckle, before they both open their mouths to speak in unison, “Welcome home.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sleepy, running a fever, and am probably going to regret this as soon as I wake up.  
> (unbeta-ed aka all the more reason for me to regret this *cries into hands*)
> 
>  
> 
> [ **Twitter** ](https://twitter.com/oshietooru)


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